


The Case of the Trouserless Detective

by thesilverarrow



Series: The Case of the Trouserless Detective and other stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always-a-girl, F/M, Genderswap, Sexswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/thesilverarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Through clenched teeth, he mutters, "When I come back in here to make dinner, I had better not be able to see your knickers," then he turns and stalks out of the room.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Trouserless Detective

On day three of the Great Trousers Boycott, John decides that he and Sherlock need to have a talk about boundaries – namely, to establish that they exist. 

After six months living with The World's Only Female Consulting Detective, he's accustomed himself to a lot of things he hadn't imagined he'd ever need to: mold being intentionally cultured in the bathtub, cups of tea that disappear as soon as his back is turned, 3:30 a.m. violin concerts, etc. He's survived the Replace the Damn Lightbulb in the Hallway standoff and weathered hurricane Don't Touch My Beakers For God's Sake. This is, of course, in addition to a lot of positive new things, but the point is, he'd thought he was good at coping with the capricious, destructive whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes. He's been forced of late to somewhat revise his estimate of his abilities.

On day one of the boycott, he didn't say a word about her thigh-skimming t-shirt and gray cotton knickers ensemble, unless you count the stray muttered "hmm" or "well." On day two, he decided not to get into a debate about her men's undershorts and clinging tank top; they were, he supposed, no worse than a modest bathing suit might be. He contented himself with the thought that at least she's been wearing pants. He's halfway afraid if he pushes the subject, she'll remove them (or some other article of clothing!), but he's willing to risk it. Because he doesn't actually think it could get worse than this: Sherlock in nothing but a white button down shirt, cuffs unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, skimming a pair of tasteful black silk knickers. 

For three days now, she hasn't gone out, so it's been nothing but long, long legs and, for John, a simmering arousal that is starting to put him on edge. Right now, she's recording data from an ongoing biological experiment of some kind that, as usual, is being carried out on the sodding kitchen table. That this doesn't make her one iota less attractive to him tells him how far gone he is down this ill-advised road of Living with Ridiculous Wanker Who, Oh By the Way, Is Also a Girl. Double trouble does not begin to cover it.

Mustering his courage, he marches toward the kitchen only to find himself too flustered by the small curve of her arse and the defined muscles of her calves to broach the subject tactfully. (And, really, why bother? She doesn't.) He simply huffs out a plea:

"Will you, for the love of God, put on some trousers."

She doesn't even look up. "Which ones?"

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. As his carefully planned argument crumbles before her almighty obliviousness, he finds that he's instead waving his arms, trying to settle on something articulate to say.

"Any ones," he finally barks, and his voice echoes through the flat like a pistol shot. 

When she finally turns and takes in his expression, the pinched one that complements his tone, she looks puzzled and guarded. Then she betrays her ill ease with the situation: she takes the clip from her hair, shakes out her long dark curls, and then methodically winds them into a messy tangle again. This is Sherlock either thinking or simply stalling – and bothered enough she's sloppily telegraphing it.

It's enough to make John feel like throwing his arms around her. He doesn't, of course. He combats this feeling on a near daily basis – when she's fidgety, when he's grouchy and she makes him smile, when she smiles, when she takes down Anderson a peg or three, when they solve a mystery, and for a hundred other reasons – so he's become something of an expert. So, now, he does what he's learned to do in these situations, at least when it's possible: he flees.

Through clenched teeth, he mutters, "When I come back in here to make dinner, I had better not be able to see your knickers," then he turns and stalks out of the room.

It's only when he's closed himself into his room and thrown himself on the bed that he wonders if this is so much worse than he thought. What if she's doing this on purpose?

*

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, after several hours of his thoughts ricocheting around his brain unproductively, he tries logic. It couldn't hurt to counteract the perfect ivory thighs of Sherlock Holmes with a rational exploration of what possible reason she might have for teasing him so. Unfortunately, he comes up with only two hypotheses, once he discards the notion that she's trying to make him half mad just to get her jollies. (She's not that good at hiding her amusement.)

Hypothesis No. 1: An experiment in male sexuality

This kind of theory makes the most sense. It's infuriating, but it's not malicious and it's typical Sherlock. If this is an experiment, he can probably(!) end it quickly by telling her what she wants to know. _Yes, Sherlock, men find women's legs distracting. Would you like to measure my heart rate or blood pressure?_

Hypothesis No. 2: A misguided attempt at expressing her personal interest in him.

He finds this idea harder to swallow, given his knowledge of her rather direct approach to things. Then again, when she tried (and failed) to get him to teach her to drive for her practical ("Though knowledge of theory should be a sufficient measure, John"), she hinted and flattered and was completely passive aggressive about it. That had actually made him feel better about their relationship, that she was at least in this way like most other women he's known. Women, he can deal with, just not this beautiful figure of unbreakable porcelain housing a mind like a computer drive. 

As evidence for these hypotheses, he spends some time trying to more specifically catalogue her behavior over the last three days. Unfortunately, again, there has been little in the way of atypical behavior that might suggest seduction, for any reason. What he gets, then, is a list of evidence against himself.

List of contraindications for pricktease hypotheses nos. 1 and 2

01\. Continues wearing bra (as much as ever, anyway)  
02\. Not observing me as though I'm an experiment, scientific or personal  
03\. Alternately, doesn't look to be "up to something"  
04\. Not wearing (particularly) fancy knickers  
05\. Not changed her appearance otherwise  
06\. Keeping to her usual schedule of bathing every third day  
07\. No suggestive comments  
08\. No broaching the topic of sex  
09\. No needless touching  
10\. Not lingering in my personal space  
11\. Not reaching over her head for things in kitchen, beyond what she normally reaches for (though, _Jesus Christ_ …)  
12\. Ditto bending over

Conclusion: Basically, there is nothing new in the flat except Sherlock's refusal to wear trousers. 

The list seems like pretty damning evidence, but he can't be entirely sure. Isn't the absence of trousers itself still a powerful argument that something is different?

*

When he slips into the kitchen later to make a sandwich, she's wearing a long casual skirt he's never seen before. And still looking a bit confused. 

Without preamble, she hoists herself up onto the counter and says:

"Is it the show of skin generally or of my legs specifically that arouses you?" 

"What?"

"Obviously, you are averse to looking at my legs. Having ruled out the idea that you find my legs unattractive – if you did, you would not say so, just as you haven't said a word about my dilapidated easy chair or my chartreuse throw pillows, and bodies are more personal subjects than home décor – I assume you find my legs attractive. If this attractiveness is problematic, I would like to know why."

"Why?"

"Yes, why."

"No, I mean, why do you want to know why?"

"So I can rectify the problem."

He closes his eyes, smiling ruefully. "Of course."

She tilts her head, for all the world like a puzzled android. "Surely you didn't think I was trying to be…"

"No." He sighs. "Just… no."

She blinks. "Actually, I was hoping you would finish that thought. Surely you didn't think I was trying to be…"

"Sherlock."

"Humor me. I was trying to be…"

"Distracting," he snaps. When she squints at him, he adds, "Because I'm a heterosexual male and you have lovely legs."

"Lovely?"

"Look, I'm not writing a lab report for you. They're nice legs, that's all. It's not a thing to investigate. I'm quite capable of sharing this space with you without the need to grope you or write sonnets in appreciation of your form – so long as you continue to wear trousers. I would've thought that was a fairly normal request."

"It is," she replies with a nod. "However, while I appreciate knowing the solution to the problem, I still don't understand—"

He huffs out a loud breath. "Does nothing make you…"

"What?"

"Are you not…distracted by things?"

"Sexually?"

"Yes," he says with a sigh. "Sexually."

Now, she rolls her eyes and frowns. "John, I assure you, I'm not ignorant about such things. I have my proclivities. It's just that, as far as this situation goes, I was operating under false assumptions. Most modern men are more interested in breasts than legs. I have rather small breasts, and I've been keeping them covered. In addition, I failed to consider that you might see me as a potential sexual partner. I hadn't thought we had that kind of relationship."

"We don't. That's kind of the point."

She squints at him again, as though looking at him with her very serious, sincere face will somehow allow her to read his mind. As far as he knows, that's one skill she doesn't have. Yet.

Finally, she nods decisively, saying, "Heretofore, then, I will make every effort to do my dry cleaning in a timely fashion. And remember to pick it up. Perhaps with your help, I'll be better able to remember."

At this revelation, John can't help but laugh, softly at first and then a bit hysterically. Sherlock gives him a quizzical smile.

"Laundry," he says with a chuckle. "My God."

"I forget things."

"Yes, you do."

"I promise," she says, "that if my trouserless state were meant to communicate anything in particular…" She shakes her head suddenly. "No, I won't pretend it ever would have occurred to me to attempt to attract a man with my legs."

"It should," he replies, and he rather wishes he could take it back until he sees that familiar look in her eyes: she's just gleaned a new bit of information to be exploited in the future. That's generally good, but it's frankly terrifying in this context. He has a feeling Detectives Lestrade and Anderson will be similarly conflicted when faced with the reality of Sherlock Holmes going undercover in a miniskirt, turning heads but still utterly failing walk naturally in high heels.

"That's very helpful information," she says. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The conversation's over, but he can't will himself to move. He can't stop staring at her legs, now that the problem is out in the open. He sees how knobby her knees are, even though they're cleanly shaven, and how many childhood scars she has on her feet and ankles. She's probably the only tomboy he's ever met that is best described as statuesque. (And hasn't he served under plenty of attractive but rough and tumble female majors in his day!) It's a pleasing combination, really.

She says, "You know that if I wanted to…" She makes a vague hand gesture.

"I know."

He'd been desperate for her not to finish that thought. Too much possibility, not enough probability. 

"Oh, you do?"

He's not entirely sure they're talking about the same thing anymore, but it seems smart to simply reply, "I do."

"Then the question, John, is how _you_ would go about seducing a person."

"You tell me."

He watches her eyes shift back and forth as she processes a train of thought. 

"I believe it would depend very much upon the person," she finally says.

He smiles. "Yes, it would."

She narrows her eyes a bit, showing her focus, but her expression is slyly friendly. "Me, for instance, then?"

"You?" 

He feels a blush rise to his face. 

"A test case," she says, then she gives him a smile like he's never seen before.

With that smile, guilelessly charming and more than usually curious, and added as it is on top of a mountain of more tangible data, he realizes something: maybe it never occurred to her to try to attract him, but that's not the same thing as her not _wanting_ to, now that she knows it's possible. And if she wants to have his attention, surely that means _she_ …

His heart leaps into his throat, and he thinks about how people not blessed with perfect reason can glean the most extraordinary things from intangibles: a wrinkle around the eyes, an incisor catching at a bottom lip, a ribbon of tension that somehow travels from her restless hands to his ribs, which for a moment are not entirely able to expand enough to fill his lungs with air.

"I don't know," he says in a rush, scratching the back of his head, forcing himself to at least appear relaxed. "Probably the same way I get you to eat after a case."

"Put food in front of me so my body reminds my brain how little fuel it has left? I don't see the analogy." 

When he just shrugs his shoulders and refuses to elaborate, she gives him a sort of puzzled but mostly acquiescent smile and then wanders out of the kitchen.

He doesn't correct her interpretation of his behavior. He doesn't say he gets her to eat the way he gets her to do anything. He knows her, both the rational side she projects and the irrational side she willfully ignores. There's no pushing or manipulating or conning Sherlock Holmes. There's simply knowing what kind of offer she's likely to accept – that is, what you can convince her she's chosen for herself – and putting it on the table, as it were.

Not that such a thing is actually simple. If it were, he thinks, it wouldn't be any fun.


End file.
